


Stay

by hopeintheashes



Category: Suits (US TV), White Collar
Genre: Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15339015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopeintheashes/pseuds/hopeintheashes
Summary: Mike wonders briefly if he’s the mark in some long, germ-filled con. He decides that if he is, he doesn’t want to know.Dinner at Neal’s was supposed to be a one-time thing.





	Stay

Dinner at Neal’s was supposed to be a one-time thing: a way to wrap up a case that had forced Peter and Harvey into bed together, metaphorically speaking and to their mutual dismay. The case itself had been several grinding weeks of being told to play by the Bureau’s rules, with Harvey bitching about and bypassing protocol at every turn and Mike quietly sweating over whether he was about to be found out by the literal FBI. It didn’t help that Harvey had figured out how to get under Peter’s skin within seconds of their first handshake, and had made a game of seeing how far he could push Peter before his studied professionalism would break in favor of defending his clothes or his car or his criminal consultant. Mike decided early on that it was best to let the two of them go at it and to stay three steps behind, where Neal usually joined him to keep up a running commentary on the whole affair. It was a welcome distraction, and good company, and in the end the takedown was a thrilling full-court press of well-executed plans and slick conman charm. Somewhere in the high of victory a celebratory dinner had been planned, and if Mike had had to bribe Harvey into keeping the date, well, no reason to share that part with their hosts.

Neal’s address had turned out to be a freaking _mansion_ , which meant that dinner was a spiral of Harvey pressing for the backstory and Peter shutting him down more and more aggressively each time. Mike was pretty sure it was out of spite rather than actual secrecy, but he took the hint and didn't ask, settling for speculating wildly with Harvey and Donna on Monday instead. They'd drunk a shocking amount of Neal’s good wine and rehashed all the fights they’d ever had until Elizabeth had appeared like an angel at the door after her gallery opening. She'd greeted Neal with a kiss when he opened the door, but that was somehow less intimate than the way she absentmindedly brushed her fingers across Peter’s shoulders on her way to pull up a chair. Peter had visibly exhaled at the touch, and the tension in the room lifted, just a bit. Mozzie had snuck in just behind El and started up a lively, conspiracy-filled rant directed at Harvey about “people of your ilk” that had Peter looking stricken but made Harvey throw back his head in genuine laughter, and it had started to feel something like an actual dinner party. Mike caught Neal’s eye across the table and let his mouth quirk sideways in a grin. The smile he got back— slow and warm and just for him— had felt like a sudden flaring bonfire in his chest.

It's a one-time thing, and then Neal texts to ask if he wants to go for drinks. They talk for three hours at the bar, sipping top-shelf liquor in a corner booth, and then they end up back at Neal’s. Mike is just drunk enough to ask for the how-the-fuck story on the mansion apartment after all. Neal lays out the whole story of June and the second-hand store and his balcony and his wine while pulling two long-stemmed glasses off the shelf. Mike melodramatically mouths  _I love you_  at Neal’s back when he turns around to pour.

He wakes up on his own couch, hungover and groaning, and rouses himself just enough to confirm with relief that it’s Sunday. He texts Neal that _next time there needs to be food involved_ , followed by _oh god i’m so fucked up_. He’s already fallen back into a dizzy sleep when the reply of _Dinner on Thursday?_  comes through.

And then it’s a sort-of-weekly thing, always at Neal’s. _Jesus, look at the place_ is the stated reason (well, Mike’s stated reason), but the unspoken part is the ankle monitor that blinks impassively from under the cuff of Neal’s perfectly tailored pants. Neal catches him staring, but didn’t move to hide it. “It’s a reminder,” he says.

“That your indiscretions are in the past?” It comes out more biting than he’d meant.

Neal looks him straight in the eye, no trace of a smile. “Not to get caught.”

Mike chokes, and coughs, and tries to pretend that it was the risotto and not Neal’s pointed words that took him down. Neal pounds him on the back and pours him more wine, and moves on to recounting the latest misadventures of the FBI crew, and mercifully, the moment is gone.

. . .  
. . .

Thursday nights are getting better, but everything else is worse. Harvey’s pissed at him, again, and it’s half-justified and he doesn’t know how to fix it other than working his ass off and hoping for the best. Rachel is… fuck. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen with Rachel. Whenever he starts thinking long-term, he sees her, every time. In the meantime, though, she’s still walking the other way when she sees him at work. If she needs time, then, fine. He’ll give her time. For now, he’s going to try to get back in Harvey’s good graces, and if that means pulling an all-nighter or two, that’s a price he’s willing to pay to keep his job, and his secret, and, through a wicked twist of fate, the closest thing he has to family these days.

The problem with all-nighters is that if you’re going to pull more than one of them in a row, you need to have more than one extra set of clothes at the office, which Mike does not, and which is how he finds himself biking home and back at dawn. He stops just long enough to shower and change and look longingly at his bed. The floor under his desk isn’t so bad, he tells himself, and it’s sure as hell less risky than trying for Harvey’s couch. And the rush of cold air on his face is… bracing. Invigorating. Yeah.

He can’t convince himself of the lie. It’s freezing, damp with mist, and it smells like exhaust and garbage and the sewer and the river, polluted beyond repair.

He’s back by 7:45, but apparently in Harvey’s world that isn’t early enough. He opens his mouth to protest, to explain that he’d been there all night, but the words _get out of my goddamn office and go do your job_ are enough to snap it shut. He chokes down the words that are threatening to rip themselves out of his throat, and turns around. Goes back to his desk. Does not curse out his boss.

He’s deep into his eighth box of files of the morning when his phone chimes to remind him that he’s supposed to have dinner with Neal that night. Thank fuck for automated notifications. He barely knows what day it is, let alone what plans he’d agreed to two weeks before. This case, though, isn’t letting up. They’re so close to trial, and the opposition’s strategy, when forced to give up the batch of documents that they all know contains the file that will bring the whole thing crashing down, has been to bury them in paperwork and hope the clock runs out. Harvey’s been running dangerously low on allies, and all the other associates and paralegals are spoken for. It’s up to Mike. Find the file or die trying.

He pulls out his phone to cancel with Neal, because he’s run the odds in his head three times in the last two minutes and there are just too many boxes. Better to cancel now than at the last second, with food already on the table and Neal waiting for him to arrive. Just a text, a _Sorry, I’m swamped at work, let’s try again next week_. He’s done it before, could do it again, should do it again, but this time it’s just too much. There’s a sharp rush of anger that turns his stomach— fuck Harvey, fuck this job, fuck his own fucking lies. The text he sends is _What’s the plan for dinner tonight?_ and the text he gets back is _The plan is you show up and I feed you_ and it’s that moment of warmth, like Neal’s smile, that just about does him in.

He keeps it together. Digs back in with renewed purpose. He finds the smoking gun at 6:15 and just about collapses with exhaustion and relief. Mike doesn’t realize how much he’s shaking until he’s standing in Harvey’s office, holding out the file. Harvey pauses before taking it. “You look like hell, kid.”

“Double all-nighters will do that for you.” The words are bitter on his tongue.

“Don’t I know it.”

Mike wants to spit back that he hasn’t exactly had company the last few nights. Instead, he bites his lips so hard he thinks they might bleed.

Harvey’s voice is as straightforward as ever, but Mike thinks maybe there’s a softening around his eyes. “Go home. Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mike turns on his heel and is almost out the door when— “And Mike?” He looks back. Harvey’s holding up the folder. “Good work.”

. . .  
. . .

His cab gets stuck in the lurching morass of rush hour traffic, windshield wipers thudding in the driving rain: a dull, steady beat under the salsa music on the radio and the blare of horns outside. He’d been soaked through in the few minutes it took to hail a ride. At this rate, it would’ve been faster to bike, the cold and the rain be damned, but he’s just too tired. His whole body aches from endless hours hunched over file boxes. He swipes at the rainwater dripping from his nose with the back of his hand, then texts Neal. _Traffic sucks, but I’m on my way. See you soon._

The cabbie brakes just a little too hard in front of Neal’s house, a not-so-subtle hint, and Mike comes to with a start. He manages to pay the guy and stumble out onto the sidewalk. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, but he’s still so fucking cold. He shakes himself, trying to get presentable before he rings the bell. The whole butler thing still kind of weirds him out, and he’s never quite sure the guy is actually going to let him in. He wouldn’t blame June for not wanting someone in her house who’s just going to track city-muck on the impossibly expensive carpets.

The stairs up to Neal’s apartment seem to have doubled in number since the last time he was here, but he makes it, buoyed by the promise of hot food and good company and no more motherfucking files. When he knocks on the door, Neal opens immediately, with a smile. It falters, and Mike realizes how bad he must look.

“I got caught in the rain,” Mike tries to explain. “And there was this file…” he trails off. Rubs his eyes. “It’s just been a long day.”

“Looks like it.” Sympathetic. “Come in.”

He steps forward enough to let Neal close the door behind him, then hesitates. “Could I get, like… a towel, or something? I don’t want to drip on the floor.”

Neal goes and comes back, and Mike starts to dry himself off, face and hair first, then pressing the heavy fabric of his jacket between the folds of the towel. That part’s a lost cause.

“Tell you what…” Neal pauses for a moment, then presses ahead. “Let me get you some clothes. Take a shower, warm up, and then we’ll eat.”

Mike blinks at him, and considers his options, and shivers hard enough that his teeth chatter, and nods.

“Yeah?” Encouraging.

“Yeah.”

The clothes Neal comes back with are pretty much pajamas: sweatpants and a soft white t-shirt and a knit button-up sweater and thick socks. Mike takes off his dress shoes and his suit jacket and looks around for somewhere to hang up the jacket. Neal takes it out of his hands and replaces it with the stack of warm, dry clothes. “There’s another towel and a washcloth in the bathroom. Feel free to use whatever you find in terms of shampoo, soap, all that.”

He’s exhausted and a little shellshocked and there’s this rising guilt at coming over and derailing dinner by being utterly pitiful, and at first he doesn’t move. Neal puts a hand on his shoulder and he shivers again, a shuddering breath in that’s only mostly because of the cold. A gentle push, and he’s walking, and the draw of being clean and warm is enough to propel him forward, and into the bathroom, and into the shower, and under the hot water, and it’s pure relief.

When he comes out, Neal has changed into casual clothes as well, which Mike appreciates. Wearing pajamas when your company is in two-thirds of a three-piece suit is a unique sort of disadvantage. (Neal in that vest, though. Goddamn.) The table is set, but there’s only water this time, no wine. He realizes that Neal has read him correctly, again, like always, and sits down.

Dinner is chicken and sweet potatoes and green beans, simple ingredients prepared in a way that’s three steps above anything Mike could make at home. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until the food was actually there, and he has to stop himself from shoveling it all down before Neal can get in his second bite. Halfway in, he puts down his fork and laughs shakily. “I’m sorry, I’m a terrible dinner guest. How was your day?”

Neal waves him off. “You’re fine.” He picks up his water glass and considers. “Well, our surveillance van got into a car chase today.”

_“What?”_

“The guy just took off, and everyone else was on foot— we didn’t expect him to steal a car! So there I am, watching from the sidewalk with my mouth hanging open as this huge box of a utility truck takes the corner so fast it just about goes over—”

Neal keeps talking, and Mike forces himself to eat the second half of his food slowly, and he’s coming down, and that’s good. Now that he’s out of survival mode, though, the headache is really starting to set in, standing out against the full-body ache that he’s starting to suspect means _fever_ , a possibility he tries to push out of his mind. He swallows his last few bites of food and drops his head into his hands.

“—I swear to God, I never thought I would see Jones look _green_. I don’t think he’ll ever get back in that truck again unless he’s the one behind the wheel.” Neal pauses. Mike knows he’s being studied, but can’t find the strength to lift his head. A rustle, and then Neal’s no longer in the seat across from him, but in the chair the end of the table, at Mike’s elbow, voice low. “You okay?”

Mike tries to say something reassuring, but when Neal’s hand meets his back, it spiderweb-cracks every single wall that’s holding him together. He manages a whispered, “I don’t know.”

“When’s the last time you slept?”

Mike laughs bitterly. “Other than on the office floor?” He shakes his head. Tries to tamp down the tremor in his voice and in his bones. “Days.”

“Mike.” Neal’s rubbing circles on his back now, and it’s going to fucking do him in. “That’s not normal. You shouldn’t have to kill yourself for this job.”

Frustration, at this point, is at an instant boil. “I _do_ have to, because it’s all I’ve fucking got, okay? Harvey doesn’t accept anything _less_ than killing yourself for the job, and Rachel hates me, and Jessica _knows_ , and any one of them could blow up my life like _that_ —” he snaps his fingers and swipes at his eyes; tries to get back in control.

“Knows what, Mike?”

Neal’s a damn good conman. False sincerity, though, has this sheen, this _glamour_ , in the oldest sense of the word; an enchantment that’s only surface-deep. The charm shatters under the weight of sick certainty, and he’s on his feet so fast his vision greys. Neal’s up, too, trying to steady him, but Mike backs away. “Don’t you pull that shit with me, Caffrey; you know, you fucking know—” He’s shaking hard, now, one hand gripping the back of a chair and the other held up to keep Neal from coming any closer. His head is pounding; heart exploding in his chest. He tries to spit out _You liar, you motherfucking liar_ , but the words get strangled in his lungs.

Neal’s got his hands up like he’s approaching a spooked horse. “I do know, but I was hoping you’d trust me enough to tell me yourself.”

“How—”

“Mozzie.”

“Jesus Christ, that rat-bastard—”

“He’s naturally suspicious, Mike. He has that same level of dirt on anyone who sets foot in this apartment.”

He takes a shuddering breath. “Are you going to tell Peter?”

Neal steps forward to look him in the eye. Gets a hand on Mike’s shoulder, and Mike doesn’t shake it off. “No.”

His exhale at the word is more like a sob. Neal wraps him up, and his arms are warm and strong, and it’s been so fucking long since he had this, so fucking long.

He’s got his face buried in Neal’s neck, floating somewhere out of time and space. Neal’s voice, quiet, out of the darkness: “You’re burning up; you know that, right?”

Mike nods against him, because _I didn’t know but I thought maybe but I hoped not_ is too many words.

And then he’s on the couch under a perfectly soft blanket that still has enough heft to weigh him down and the lights are low and Neal’s reappearing with a handful of pills and another glass of water and his last though before he’s out is, _I really am a terrible dinner guest_.

. . .  
. . .

He wakes uncertain of where he is. The dim light of the city-darkness looks different than in his apartment, and he’s definitely not in his bed. He finds his phone on the coffee table along with water and crackers and another round of pills and a note that just says, “Stay.” The too-bright screen says it’s 3:23 a.m. He stumbles to the bathroom. Manages to piss and wash his hands and splash lukewarm water on his face without falling over. It’s something like a win.

When he comes out, Neal’s sitting up in bed. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His throat hurts.

Neal lets him sit back down on the couch before sliding off the bed and coming to sit next to him. “How’re you feeling?”

He shrugs. Neal throws an arm over the back of the couch behind him, and Mike takes the invitation to let his head fall against Neal’s shoulder. It would be so easy to go back to sleep just like this.

“Do you want to call into work now so you don’t have to wake up again first thing?”

Mike pushes back up and blinks at him. “I can’t call in. The case—”

“Mike.” Neal’s voice is firm. “You just about passed out on me last night, which, by the way, was kind of scary to watch, and—” his palm is cool against Mike’s forehead— “you’ve still got a fever, even with the meds. I have a thermometer if you want to put a number to it, but trust me, work wouldn’t go well.”

“But Harvey—”

“Will get over it. So, do you want to tell them now or do they make you wait until there’s a real person there to pick up?”

He shakes his head. “I could leave a message for Donna.”

Neal picks up Mike’s phone and hands it to him. “Do it, and then turn off your phone, and then go back to sleep.”

He’s not sure how coherent the message on Donna’s machine is, but maybe that will just make his point for him. He does have enough sense not to say where he is, because Harvey Specter isn’t above showing up on people’s doorsteps unannounced. (He can’t say he’s innocent in that department either, but chooses to ignore that part for now.) When it’s done, he’s exhausted, and he knows that Neal is right: if a piss and a phone call are enough to knock him flat on his back, he’d barely make it through the first cup of coffee at work.

Neal pulls him in for a sidelong hug. “Go back to sleep,” he says again, whispered in his hair. There’s a butterfly-wing brush of a kiss on the top of his head and then Neal’s heading back toward his bed and Mike’s sinking back down into the couch, warm in the closing-in dark.

. . .  
. . .

When he wakes again, it’s fully light out. His phone isn’t on the coffee table anymore, but the untouched pills from last night are, and he’s regretting that oversight with every shuddering chill. His throat is swollen and his nose has decided to get in on the action, too, forcing him to get up and off the couch in search of tissues or toilet paper or whatever Neal has around. What he isn't expecting to find in his search is Neal himself, lounging at the table with coffee and a newspaper. He blinks in confusion, wondering if he somehow slept all the way through to the weekend, but the issue of him sniffling like a child in front of Neal takes precedence over trying to figure out things like dates and times.

“There’s tissues in the bathroom,” Neal says casually, and takes a sip of his coffee. Mike’s phone is on the table beside him. Mike has a vague memory of hearing it ring while he was asleep, loud in his ear and then suddenly, mercifully silent, apparently not by magic after all.

Mike closes the bathroom door behind him and blows his nose about a dozen times before he can stop and take stock. Neal left the thermometer out on the counter for him, but honestly, Mike doesn’t want a number. He knows he feels like shit, and that he needs to get back home and bury himself in bed and not come out until Monday. Not that there’s any tissues at his house. Or medicine. Or food. Or blankets so soft they must be made out of fucking unicorn fur. Or hair kisses. Yeah. His place is not the place to be.

He shakes himself and puts himself back together as best as he can. Decides that unicorns don’t actually have fur. Loses his concentration just long enough to be overtaken by another round of chills. He’s settled on having breakfast here (might as well) and then changing back into his hopefully-dry suit (his fevered skin aches at the prospect) and then calling a cab. A plan. Plans are important. He takes a steadying breath and opens the bathroom door.

“What time is it?” He has even less of a voice than he’d expected. Ugh.

“9:30.” Neal’s still reading the paper. Giving him space.

“What… day is it?”

Neal does look up at that, concerned. “It’s Friday.” He motions to the table. “Sit down before you fall down, Mike.” The way Neal says his name is better than any endearment.

He does. “Okay, that’s what I thought, but then… why are you here?” The words catch and he’s sent into a coughing fit that starts out small but ends deep in his lungs with his ribs aching. _Fuck_.

Neal’s on his feet, filling a glass of water at the tap. “Took the day off. Couldn’t exactly leave you alone in my house.” He smiles and sets the water down in front of Mike. “Never know what you might uncover.”

Mike’s too tired to protest that he wasn’t going to snoop. It would have been a lie. He sips the water instead.

“Want some toast?”

“I— yeah. That’d be great.” He drops his head into his hands again and shivers. When Neal comes around to get the bread, he draws his hand across Mike’s shoulders, settling on his neck. Mike has this flash of Peter and Elizabeth at that first dinner that started it all. Neal pauses like he wants to comment on the fever, but decides against it. “I know,” Mike tells him. Resigned. Neal gives a little squeeze and moves on to the counter to slice the bread. Mike forces himself to breathe. “I’ll be out of here soon.”

The sounds of Neal getting breakfast ready stop. “You don’t need to go.”

“I mean, I already ruined your evening and woke you up in the middle of the night… I’m happy to give you a reason to take the day off of work, but I don’t need to stick around and keep you from enjoying it.” He forces himself to look over his shoulder at Neal, and has to squint against the headache and the light.

Neal comes back around and sits beside him at the table. Smooths a thumb over the worrylines in Mike’s forehead. Lets his fingers play through Mike’s short hair. “Well, I’m not kidnapping you and keeping you against your will, but I promise - you can stay. You _should_ stay.” Neal stands up, a fluid motion that takes him back to the counter, and the empty space at his temple where Neal’s hand used to be is an cold reminder of what he’d be going home to. “At the very least, eat some breakfast. Take those pills you’ve been ignoring. Get that fever down.”

. . .  
. . .

The toast and the painkillers and Neal’s way of reading him just right, of knowing when to push and when to back off, kick in slowly until suddenly, Mike realizes that he no longer feels like he wants to curl up under the floorboards and wait for death. The light coming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows is warm and pleasant, and the tea Neal sets in front of him is the perfect blend of bitter and sweet, and he feels like he’s actually contributing something to the conversation, and he stops watching the clock and the door. It’s been a long time since he could say he felt relaxed, at least without alcohol or weed. It’s like taking a vacation to another world— skylights and balconies and half-finished paintings in a Renaissance style, the mid-morning sun sparkling off the river below. It’s not like he’s never seen New York City from above; working on the 50th floor gives you a hell of a view. It’s just… different here.

He doesn’t realize he’s fading out until Neal gently pulls away the empty tea cup and he starts awake.

“Take my bed.” The way Neal says it makes it seem like a foregone conclusion, like the only possible option that would make sense. “I just changed the sheets.”

Mike wants to tell him that he’s not worried about the sheets; that he’s passed out in countless strangers’ beds, intoxicated and incoherent; that one of those times Trevor crawled in next to him and, as drunk as Mike has ever seen him in their long shared life, pissed the bed, both of them too far gone to do anything about it until well past morning. He wants to insist that he’ll take the couch. He wants to say, again, that he was just leaving; that Neal has already done too much. He’s barely keeping his eyes open, though, so he doesn’t actually say any of that, just lets Neal lead him over to the softest bed he’s ever felt. He crawls under the covers and lets go of the world.

. . .  
. . .

He wants to stay asleep, to go back to the dreamy floating balcony world, but he’s breathing fast and shallow against waves of jarring chills and all he can do is bury himself under the covers and try to ride them out. He keeps expecting Neal to appear, in his radiance and his all-knowing magic, but time just lurches forward like a drunk on a broken sidewalk and he’s alone and he’s alone. Finally, he brings himself to the surface enough to hear Neal’s half of a phone conversation out on the balcony. He’s probably talking to Peter. Probably talking about _him_. He wonders if he should feel ashamed.

He waits out the phone call, trying to force his muscles to relax, until he hears Neal come back inside. He tries for his name, but only a battered groan comes out. He tries again, louder. “Neal?”

“Yeah?” His voice is far away, and then closer. “How’re you doing?”

He shakes his head, eyes still closed, not sure whether Neal can see him but unable to actually speak.

“Hey.” The bed dips and the covers are pulled from his face and he’s shuddering again. Neal’s strong hand is gentle on his forehead. Mike grabs his wrist in hopes of holding it there forever. “Hey, hey—” pulling away— “I’ll be right back.” Mike hates himself for shaking his head, for the tears in his eyes; _no, no, you can’t leave me, not now_. Lips on his forehead and one more caress, and he’s half-sure he’s hallucinating the words— “I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay.”

There’s a blur of water and pills, again, and a thermometer under his tongue that just about suffocates him in the time it takes to get a reading since he can’t breathe through his nose. There’s a cool, wet washcloth on his forehead and eyes and Neal's there next to him, sitting up against the headboard. Mike burrows, aching, into his hip. A hand on his back, steady and grounding, and quiet music that Neal’s singing along with under his breath, and an exhausted relief that he’s not doing this in his empty apartment, not doing this alone.

. . .  
. . .

There’s music beside him, and the tapping of laptop keys, and sketching, and then the ghost of a hand over his hair and Neal is painting, and cooking, and Mike is warm and safe and weighted down.

Dinner is homemade soup, because of course it fucking is, because Neal is too good for this world. Mike wonders briefly if he’s the mark in some long, germ-filled con. He decides that if he is, he doesn’t want to know. He sits at the table with a blanket around his shoulders and sweat in his hair, and he coughs into his soup and uses approximately twenty million tissues and tries to think of the last time his happiness didn’t come at someone else’s expense. He knows there’s more to life than victory won by dragging your opponents through mud and shit. He used to, at least. Before.

Neal’s watching him.

“I think…” He stops to cough. Tries again. “I think this is… better.”

“Better than what?” Rolling with the subject change.

“Than people stabbing each other in the back.”

Neal laughs at that. “I certainly hope so.”

“No—” Insistent, because Neal’s not getting it, and he needs to understand. “ _Here_. This is better. Than… that.”

“It is.”

“But you’re—” He’s thinking too hard. His headache’s coming back. He points his soup spoon at Neal and it drips on the tablecloth. “You’re a liar.” Matter-of-fact.

“Sometimes.” Steady as ever.

“All the time.”

Neal’s quiet for a minute. Then: “All the time about some things. Never about this.”

“Oh.” And yeah, that sounds right, because he’s a liar, too; all the time about so many things but, he’s suddenly certain, never about… this.

. . .  
. . .

Neal goes for the couch, and that’s bullshit because it’s his own house; bullshit because Mike already infected the thing so it’s not like he’s any safer there; bullshit because he wants his hands on Neal and the couch is too goddamn far away.

He doesn’t say any of that, just reaches out wordlessly. Neal laughs a little. “You sure?”

“Am I fucking sure.” The mock scorn is undercut by the way his voice keeps going out. He has a string of half-formed insults to Neal’s intelligence lined up, but Neal reclaims his place in the bed before Mike has to spend the energy to actually say them out loud. He settles on, “You’re fucked anyway, might as well lean into it.” Words muffled in the pillow. Arm thrown over Neal’s waist. “Hope you got your flu shot this year.”

Neal nods. Mike can hear it in the shift of the pillow next to him. “I did, actually. But,” he adds, stretching out in the bed, settling in beside him, “if it happens, it happens. This is worth it.” Runs a hand over the crown of Mike’s head. “You’re worth it.”

That claim doesn’t sound remotely accurate to Mike, but he lets it go. He turns his head back so he can look at Neal, and watches him for a while, until his need to ask the question outweighs his desire not to fuck up the moment. “Do you think it could ever work between you and someone who _wasn’t_ … y’know. A liar?”

Neal looks him up and down and raises an eyebrow. “You really want to talk about Rachel while you’re here in bed with me?”

Well, shit. “Nope.” He raises his hands in quick surrender, as best as he can in his current position. “Not a chance. Strike that question from the record.”

Neal laughs. “Well, _for_ the record… no. I don’t.” Suddenly serious. “But that’s me, Mike. It’s something you have decide for yourself.”

It's not the answer that he wants, and it lands like sea water in his lungs, and all he can do is roll away from Neal and cough until he’s oxygen-deprived. Neal pulls him in from behind, arm around his waist and palm on his spasming chest, breathing slow and deep like he’s trying to get Mike’s lungs to follow his lead. It’s good and it’s safe and he’s half-crying and half-hard and he doesn’t fucking know what to think of it all. He’s grateful for the darkness and the thick blankets and he covers Neal’s hand with his own, holding it there, and tries to match his breathing and to bring his racing heart and his racing mind and his racing body back down.

. . .  
. . .

When he opens his eyes to darkness, he’s dizzy and his lungs are crackling and there’s a maddening itch in his sinuses that he knows is going to turn into a tortured, gasping sneezing fit, and he’s kicking himself for ever wanting to be anything other than alone with his rebelling body. Neal had turned over in his sleep, making it easier to slide out of bed, but then what? Half of him wants to sneak out and take a cab back to his place where he can be miserable in peace, or at least curl up on one of the lounge chairs on the balcony with walls and windows between him and Neal. Realistically, though, the only place to go is the bathroom, so he does, knowing that the closed door isn’t going to be nearly enough to save him. (He’s right, and the wave of uncontrollable sneezes is so loud he’s sure they’re going to wake June wherever she is in this maze of a mansion, and he knows there’s no way Neal hasn’t heard. He’s distracted from that thought by the ferocity of round two, and gives up, and gives in.)

He’s sitting on the floor, head back against the wall, drained, when Neal appears in the doorway. The box of tissues is long-gone and he’s moved on to pulling toilet paper from the roll, hating the way it scrapes his raw skin. Neal’s gone for a moment, and then back from some secret closet, holding out a new box.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, Neal.” His voice is shattered and his consonants are mangled with congestion.

Neal’s eyes are soft. “Come back to bed, Mike.”

“Just— give me a second.” He tears open the box and coughs into a fistful of tissues for longer than he’d planned. “Let me pretend I still have some shred of dignity left.”

A nod, and the door swings shut, and he’s alone. He stays there, fading in and out of sleep, until he starts to shiver against the tile. When he crawls back into bed, he curls up at the edge, tissue box in hand, as far away from Neal as possible without having to give up the warmth of the shared blankets. Neal reaches over sleepily. His fingers on Mike’s shoulder blade feel something like a kiss, and he thinks distantly that if fevered misery is what it takes to get in bed with Neal Caffrey, well, it turns out that’s a price he’s willing to pay.

. . .  
. . .

Breakfast in bed: eggs and toast (crumbs spilling in spite of his best efforts) and orange juice. His sense of taste is so dulled that nothing tastes good, not really, but this _feels_ good, being cared for and sheltered and loved. His eyes start closing before he’s finished the food. He tries to fight it and fails, and Neal’s there to take the tray before it can go crashing to the floor. Through the haze of half-sleep he’s aware that Neal’s pausing, watching him, leaning down, lips pressing to his forehead. He wants to reciprocate but he’s too far gone to move and it’s good, it’s good, it’s good.

. . .  
. . .

“How do you do it?”

“Mm?” Neal’s sitting up in bed, engrossed in his book, hand in Mike’s hair, thumb moving against the back of his head. The late-morning light is warm through the full-length windows and his fever is down and Mike feels like maybe the worst is over, like as long as he stays in bed he’s going to start slowly regaining his strength.

“How do you live a lie and not have it fuck you up?”

Neal puts down the book, and his hand stills. “Who says it doesn’t fuck me up?”

“You seem pretty well-adjusted to me.”

Neal huffs a laugh, and starts up with the head massage again. It’s hard to stay conscious with that going on. “You just… can’t lose sight of what the truth is. No matter how deep you are into being someone else, you have to know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it.”

“I’m doing it because there’s no way out.”

“No.” He sounds so sure. “You’re smart, and resourceful, and you made money for years before you ever met Harvey. If you wanted to quit, you would’ve quit. If the people who know wanted to turn you in, they would’ve turned you in.” Neal sinks lower against the pillows until they’re at the same level. “You’re not even doing it because you get to help people— we both know the bad outweighs the good in corporate law.” Mike’s against his chest now, feeling the words resonating in Neal’s body; his heartbeat; his lungs. “You’re doing it because that’s where the people you care about are.”

Mike’s quiet for a moment. He’s sure it must be more complicated than that, but doesn’t have it in him to figure it out, or to fight. “Same for you?” He remembers too late that in Neal’s case the alternative is jail, but he’s seen Neal with Peter and El and Mozzie and June, and he thinks there’s an element of truth in it either way.

“Something like that.”

Mike looks up, and he knows that he must look awful, still flush with the last of the fever, cracked lips and bruises under his eyes, but holy fuck, there are some chances you don’t pass up. He pushes himself up so that they’re eye-to-eye and, when Neal’s lips part, he leans in. Neal’s lips are soft and his tongue is heavy and strong and Jesus Christ, Jesus _Christ_ it’s been too long.

He pulls back, panting and hard, and looks Neal in the eye again. He’s looking stunned, but not in a bad way. “Okay?”

Neal looks squarely back, a slow smile spreading. “Yeah.”

“Fuck yeah.”

Another kiss, long and slow, and another, and more, and Neal’s so goddamn good it’s like floating out of time. The spell is broken when he has to stop to cough and catch his breath and whisper, _“Sorry, sorry."_  Neal waits for him to duck back in and nips at his neck; at two days of stubble; at his earlobe, sucking, just a little bit, just enough. The moan is involuntary and he hopes to god there’s no one in earshot through the mansion walls, and then Neal’s kissing down his jawline and taking Mike’s bottom lip between his teeth and it doesn’t fucking matter anymore.

There’s a danger that he’s going to come just from all of _this_ ; he’s wound tight and his breath is already starting to catch, but his body is aching for _more, more, more_. He slides a hand up Neal’s thigh and across the waistband of his pajama pants. Dips his fingers between fabric and skin. At the push of Neal’s hips he goes in, tracing down the line of his Apollo’s belt into the darkness, fingers wrapping and teasing and holding firm. Neal’s hands are on either side of Mike’s face, eyelashes flickering. Mike’s hips press up against Neal, seeking out friction through their clothes, nerve endings exploding in fever-sensitive skin. Mike turns his head and takes Neal’s fingers into his mouth: two, then three. He works at them, swallows, tight, and Neal’s breath loses its rhythm; matches the pressure of his tongue and his grip until Neal gasps, _“Wait, wait—”_ and pushes back long enough to strip off his shirt, then to pull off Mike’s as well. There’s some uncoordinated kicking off of sweatpants, and then it’s just them and the sheets. One of Neal’s hands settles over the curve of Mike’s ass and the other is firm on his jaw, and skin-to-skin is just about more than he can take. He’s got his free hand wrapped around Neal’s wrist at his cheek, begging, but Neal holds out until the word _“please”_ actually escapes his lips. Neal grins against him and sends a hand down his chest, his stomach, grazing his balls and coming up hard on his cock, sudden and enough to do him in in a few quick strokes. He’s shuddering and moaning and gone to another fucking plane; he holds on just enough to finish what he started, tempo fast and fingers slick, until he gets the choked cry he’s been working for. He’s blissed-out, trembling, unable to move, dimly aware of Neal cleaning both them up with one of the discarded shirts and pulling him close and kissing his hair, and the best kind of oblivion closes in.

. . .  
. . .

The question of _after_ isn’t one he usually has to confront. There’s one-night stands and casual flings, and there’s real-relationship shit, and then there’s _Neal_. Well, and there’s Trevor: two decades of more-than-friendship that’s a mess of weed and greasy takeout and drugs deals gone wrong and Trevor’s mouth on his dick and vice versa; rough, drunken, desperate nights that Trevor would never talk about sober. Mike doesn’t go in for that shit anymore. Somewhere in his stoned post-college-expulsion haze he figured out that in New York City, Center of the Universe, there are plenty of men and women who are happy to fuck or date or both or neither, and who can make up their minds about which without doing permanent damage to the goddamn psyches of everyone involved. And then lately it’s been a series of good and bad decisions with Jenny and Tess and Rachel (Jesus, _Rachel_ ) and fewer hookups with attractive strangers spotted at midnight through neon lights and pounding bass, but usually, he has some idea of where he stands, or at least where he wants to stand.

Well. Maybe he has _some_ idea.

And his secret is already out.

He settles on not confronting the question. Stay, but don’t initiate; let Neal make the next move, and follow his lead.

It turns out that the next move is weirdly normal, or at least the new normal they’ve settled into since Mike showed up rain-soaked and shaking on Neal’s doorstep a day and a half before. Neal reappears, showered and dressed, and gives him another set of clothes. Mike takes his turn in the shower and they don’t talk about it, just order from a deli and turn on the game, which Mike watches from the couch and Neal mostly ignores in favor of painting in the midday light. He sleeps some more, and takes some more pills, and goes through another half a box of tissues, but he’s on the upswing now. It’s a relief, but he’s also vaguely sad, because whatever spell they’ve been operating under isn’t going to last, and he doesn’t do well with not knowing.

The late afternoon brings the fever back, low and aching, and there’s this flash of his mother at his bedside when he was maybe five or six, telling him that fevers flare when the sun sinks low and that’s just the way of the world. The thing about being wired the way he was, child prodigy and all that shit, was that he could quote textbooks on every step of the immune response, but they meant fuck all when he was young and miserable, when all that mattered was the way his mom would pull him into her lap in the rocking chair and wrap both of them in a quilt worn soft with age; the way his dad’s voice was gentle in the dimness as he told stories that he’d made up on the spot, new every time, so that Mike had no choice but to listen in the moment, relieved of the weight of memorized text. He realizes he’s shaking, and it’s not from the fever, and he tries to steady his breath. He blinks and there’s wetness on his eyelashes and his cheekbone, and Neal’s there, brushing it away. Mike wants to tell him _It’s not, I’m not—_ but the boundary between worlds has burned thin and all he can do is try to hold on to the here and now, and to hold onto Neal, and to breathe, to breathe, to breathe.

. . .  
. . .

He’s slick with sweat by morning, and that’s weird; he must have slept through the fever-break. He slips out of bed and takes a long, hot shower, marveling at the absence of fever, the way you never notice when you feel _good_  until you spend several days feeling like shit.

The t-shirt and pj pants he’d worn to bed are damp with sweat. Luckily, Neal lives in a household with laundry service, so the clothes he arrived in and those he’s borrowed from Neal so far are clean and dry and waiting in an expectant pile, with the suit hung in a dry-cleaning bag near the apartment door. He puts on his own boxers and undershirt, because it’s Sunday now and he’s going to have to go home at some point, so he might as well do it in his own clothes. Besides, it’s nice and warm under the covers, which is exactly where he’s going back to. He can always put on more layers when (if) he gets out of bed.

He’s worried that his side of the bed will be sweaty and disgusting, but his pajamas seem to have borne the brunt of it. He flips his pillow and lets himself sink back into the mattress. His own apartment feels far away; foreign and cold.

Neal stirs, and pulls him close, and sighs, his breath on the back of Mike’s neck. Mike’s tingling in all the best ways, and, with sudden certainty, rolls over in Neal’s embrace. He pushes down, this time, hands on Neal’s hipbones, kissing at his belly where his shirt’s ridden up. Neal grins through his half-sleep and threads his fingers into Mike’s hair. Mike pauses and Neal tightens his grip, just a little, and the tingling kicks up a notch. Neal’s nodding against the pillow, eyes still closed, ready before Mike even gets there, half-helping as Mike tugs at his waistband.

Neal's skin is salty and perfect when Mike takes him in his mouth. It’s slow, this time. Starting a gentle rhythm. Coming up for air. Neal’s hips move under Mike’s palms with every pull, rising, writhing, slow and strong in the morning light. Mike gives him just a hint of nails on his back and gets a moan in return, low and wanting. He closes in and backs off, tension and release, until Neal is arching and panting, closer to undone than Mike ever imagined he could be: perfect hair unstyled by sweat, breath ragged, hands grasping for Mike, pillow, sheets, Mike again, and he grins to himself, awestruck that anything about Neal could be inelegant and quietly self-satisfied that he’s the one to lay it bare.

It ends with breathless surrender; with Neal’s whole body trembling beneath his touch; with Mike kissing thigh-belly-chest-jaw; with Neal meeting his lips; with Mike finishing himself off desperate and fast with his boxers and undershirt still on, breathing in Neal as a sob builds in his chest. He presses close and they hold each other and there’s nothing but sunlight, floating high above the city in this castle, this other world.

. . .  
. . .

“So is this…” Mike trails off, later, when they’ve come back to themselves and the sun is edging toward noon and coffee is long overdue— “I mean, what is this?”

Neal shrugs, unfazed. “This is good, Mike.”

“It is, but… shit, Neal, I don’t know what we’re doing here.”

“Yes, you do.” A hint of a smile. “You’re in bed with a conman.”

“Okay, well, you’re in bed with a cheat and a fraud.”

“And neither of us have run away yet, so.” Steady. “I’m in if you are. For however long we’re both enjoying it. But here’s the thing, Mike.” Neal’s looking him straight in the eyes. “And I need you to know this now. There’s no such thing as a happily-ever-after, here. In my line of work, you go until you can’t, and then you incinerate your old life and start over somewhere new. And that doesn’t mean that no one from that old life makes the leap, but they’re few and far between.”

“Mozzie.”

Neal nods. “Like I said, few and far between. It’s not pretty, and it’s not easy, and relationships don’t generally survive.”

Mike half-laughs. “Jesus, you’re acting like I’m proposing marriage. Let’s just get through this week.”

“I’m not trying to push anything on you. I just want to be up-front.” His hand on Mike’s cheek. “Because I lie all the time about some things, but I’m not going to lie about this.”

“Okay.” Mike covers Neal’s hand with his own. Kisses Neal’s palm. Uses both their hands to mock-write in the air. “I hereby waive my right to ever claim I didn’t know what I was getting into.”

Neal raises his eyebrows, mouth quirked. “Is that gonna hold up in court?”

“Duh. Don’t you know I’m the best fake lawyer in the city?”

“Well, at least the best one currently in my bed.” And then he’s being flipped and pinned and Neal’s heavy against him, solid and real. He floats, and exhales; for now, at least, for as long as it lasts, it's good, it's good, it's good.

. . .  
. . .

 


End file.
